Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Orange had slept in Splinter's bed because he had been inconsolable the night prior. Splinter couldn't gauge if he felt more alive when he awoke to a kick in the side or if he felt just as dead as hour two into the crying when his thoughts had become a blank wall.

“That hurt…” he muttered. His eyes were still too heavy to open and slumber whispered to return to its embrace.

“Sorry, Papa.” The warmth Orange exchanged while pressed against Splinter's front was becoming uncomfortable beneath this blanket, but Splinter couldn't find it in him to reposition himself. He’d be fine if he could go back to sleep.

Then Orange started making sounds. Tiny, mindless who-who-who noises that were vaguely musical. His voice was adorable; perhaps some other time, it would've shot Splinter in a tender spot (like his elbow did earlier, but pleasantly). Splinter frowned and let him continue for a minute? Eight? He didn't know. It felt long. He would begin to doze off during Orange's every pause, so his jolt awake after every noise felt violent.

Orange, while still quiet, grew louder. “Shh…” Splinter said with as much softness as he could. He recalled always hating being shushed harshly as a child. To his surprise, Orange obeyed before he wrapped his arm around Splinter and rubbed his face under his squishy chin.

It induced a prickling feeling like an itchy sweater and Splinter set a palm on Orange’s chest to deter him. “You're too close, Orange.”

“But I missed you in sleep. I missed you, Daddy. Did you miss me?”

Miss what? He was only ever around him every single day, every second, only being apart when he went to the surface for a supply run. Splinter remained quiet.

Orange drew himself closer, his knees poking Splinter’s stomach as he tightened his fetal position. He was hot enough at that point that sweat began to form. If only Orange would move away…

Orange relaxed and slid his index finger and thumb along the shafts of Splinter’s whiskers on the side of his face that wasn't against his pillow.

Splinter shot up in bed. “Guess we're starting the day now.” When his son continued to hold onto his shirt, Splinter held his wrists and put them to Orange's chest while forcing a smile. “You ready?”

“Yeah!” Orange began to bounce where he sat. Splinter just hoped Orange's chatter wouldn't wake his other sons. It was fine if they slept longer, they'd be less cranky.

Splinter wasted no time dragging the blanket off himself and cherished the cool. He yawned, feeling normal? Exhaustion was his baseline and he certainly felt exhausted. God, he needed to brush his teeth pronto. So did Orange.

Orange grabbed the paddle hairbrush next to Splinter's ragged mattress. It looked almost oversized in his hands. A glowing grin stretched across his face. “Can I give you a hair trim?” Splinter cringed, and not at the misuse of "hair trim.”

“Not today, Orange. I'm a grown-up who can do it myself. Not that you're a bad helper.” Orange's smile reversed itself into a frown and he began to open his mouth in a cry, tears building in his eyes. Sure, Splinter had held Orange for ten hours straight already, but regardless, no parent should be repulsed by their own child’s well-meaning touch. Why am I such an ass? He asked himself.

Splinter darted a hand out to pet Orange's arm in a panic. “Never mind, it's okay, you can do it. Look.” Splinter turned so his back faced Orange and was conflicted, to say the least, when the brush met his hair. He didn't want to be touched, but it was favorable compared to Orange crying.

Splinter tried to keep his head statue-like as Orange worked just as he had practiced so many times when his stylists had done the same, but Orange's sloppy technique made it quite difficult.

He heard the snap of his hair strands as they caught on the pins and the pinch on his scalp made him tense. Just a bit more. He'll be done soon. Just a bit longer.

Orange encountered a knot, one of many, Splinter assumed, and pulled harder and harder. A frantic sensation clawed at Splinter internally. His words rushed out of him, his honeyed tone precarious. “Okay, thank you, it's finished.” The fact that Orange didn't persist felt like the biggest gift Splinter could be given. He needed to get off this mattress; he still felt overheated and couldn't stand the viscous sensation in his mouth.

Orange moved in front of him to survey him, hands proudly placed on his hips. “You look so pretty, Daddy.” His hair was undoubtedly a frizzy disaster that was worse off than before, not that he'd risk looking at his reflection to check.

It was like pulling teeth to fake anything resembling a cheerful demeanor. “All you, Orange. Good job.” Orange suddenly shifted closer with dark brown eyes trained on Splinter's face. Splinter couldn't stop himself from leaning back. Orange sighed in contentment.

“Your hair is so nice and your whiskers, too. I want some.” Hands were then grasping his whiskers and his mystacial pads instantly flexed to draw them away from Orange, but it didn't save him. Orange's morning breath only served to further repel Splinter. The boy's relaxed smile and eyes conveyed the satisfaction the texture gave him. Even though Orange was being delicate, it hurt.

It would be uncomfortable any day, but right then, it was intolerable.

In a motion gentle but abrupt, he pushed Orange away by his shoulders. “Stop that.” At the crestfallen look on Orange's face, Splinter amended his tart tone and let go of him. “Hands to ourselves, precious.”

He didn't expect it, but Orange brightened and sang a jingle. “Yes, because hands to ourself is what helps!”

Splinter forced a laugh. “Exactly. Let's go brush our teeth.” Orange stepped off of the mattress and aimed for his bathroom bag. Each boy owned one with various cleansing items inside, like toothpaste.

 ***

During the late afternoon, Red saw a commercial for cat's cradle and being in his yo-yo-loving phase, he naturally wanted a string game. Splinter retrieved some yellow yarn from his bedroom and knotted the ends together.

At the last second, Splinter decided to add some flair when giving it to Red. He hid the yarn behind his back and told him he had a gift. He smiled as big as he could, though it was as tough as it had been for over a decade.

Red's thick fingers twitched and he balled them up into fists as he stood before Splinter. He held it out and Red's expression faltered.

“Aw, I wanted red…” His lower lip jutted out as he looked at his toes.

Splinter suppressed a scoff. “Yellow's a great color,” he said instead. “They didn't have any red cat's cradles, my boy.” His supply of red yarn had depleted since he had repaired and created so many clothes for Red. He was a rough-and-tumble, bruiser of a kid, and those spikes on his shell only wore out his attire faster. “It's still just as fun. Yellow… yellow's the color of the sun. You like the sun, don't you?”

There was no way in hell Splinter was going to sneak into a toy shop just to steal a cat's cradle. Red could use his imagination, kids were experts at that, right?

Red's posture straightened and he took the yarn from Splinter's hand. Splinter tried not to look at his own short, wrinkled palm and set his gaze on Red's illuminated face. “Yeah! The sun! The sun’s warm. Feels like a hug.”

Splinter smiled, it was only slightly exaggerated. “Hm, yes.” He was prepared to leave and tend to Red’s brothers when Red spoke again.

“Daddy, show me how! What shapes can Raph make?” Splinter curled his lips in and glanced at the rest of the atrium where his other kids were. He didn't know how to play cat’s cradle specifically.

“Ah, you know, Red, I'll show you later, okay? Watch the commercial again, maybe you'll get ideas. Here.” Splinter guided Red to his recliner and gestured for him to sit in it to sweeten the deal. He gave him the remote. ”The TV is yours.”

Splinter placed a hand on his spiky shoulder and pointed at him, his voice lowering in seriousness. “No putting cat's cradle on your neck, you hear?” Red nodded, eyes wide. Splinter’s unease grew deeper in the pit of his stomach. He assumed pleasing Red would alleviate some of his mental load, but now he was just anxious that he was going to hurt himself with it.

Splinter sighed through his nose as he walked away, absentmindedly pushing his bangs off his forehead. It was okay if he dealt with the others quickly and returned to watch Red. Was there really pleasing him, anyway? It felt like most of what Splinter provided while impoverished disappointed. He dismissed the thought.

There was another level to this atrium, but Splinter hadn't done much with it. It wasn't worth investing his precious time into it then, the boys were too small to navigate the second level. He had enough to worry about without the boys falling ten feet onto the ground.

There was a dull green sheet draped over two chairs with small voices emanating from it. The sheet was held in place by sleeping bags placed in crates. Blue backed out of the tent rear-first and jumped when his eyes laid on Splinter. “Daddy! You're here!” he exclaimed with glee.

“About time, huh? What are you doing?” He slowly walked forward, head tilting curiously. He didn't smell any fire or anything, so it couldn't be too bad…

“Donnie’s getting ready for our game.” As if on cue, Purple rose from behind the sheet… somehow. He wasn't tall enough to do so naturally; he had to be standing on a perch.

“What game?” Splinter tried to sound nonchalant instead of concerned.

Blue stood beside their little tent, clapping excitedly. He didn't answer Splinter and spoke to Purple. “This one will be on top.” He pointed to the chair nearest to him.

Purple grunted with effort before he raised a black box over his head. Splinter's vision didn't seem to focus, so he squinted. A black box that had contents that loudly clanged when they slid to one side of the interior and looked like the toolbox—

“Wait! Don't—” A loud thud cut off Splinter's order as Purple threw the box on the roof of the sheet and it hit the concrete floor. The chairs that provided structure to the construct fell over.

The loud sound made his ears flatten. Too easily he pictured his sons in the middle, crushed by the box and chairs.

“I win," Purple proclaimed, pushing up the bridge of his square glasses. Splinter could finally see that Purple had indeed been standing atop another chair.

Blue stamped his foot and looked at his brother sharply. “No way! You didn't even bet!”

Purple's reply was cool. “I don't have to tell you aloud to bet.”

Blue’s voice rose. “Yes, you do! That's the rules. I made up the game.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Did so. I was standing on the chair making it go back and forth and you said, ‘Don't do that, you'll collapse the whole stuckture and get pinned under the chair's backs.’”

“I was the one who wanted to see the influence something heavy would have on the chairs.”

“Okay,” Splinter interrupted. Five pounds of stress just fell on him hearing all that shit. These kids needed a camera to monitor them or something. “No matter who began that game, it's done now. No more.”

Blue turned to Splinter and his shoulders drooped along with his head. “Aw, Dad! That's not fair! I only won twice, Donnie won, like, twenty-three times!” Splinter fucking hoped he was exaggerating. How long had they been playing? Out of the pile of what Splinter gathered were their previous test subjects lying next to the tent, the toolbox was the heaviest.

He kept his voice light. “Nope! All done. It's too dangerous, you might throw out your back like me picking heavy objects above your head.” What if they fell forward when trying to toss it? It wouldn't be a grave injury, but Splinter would have to handle the emotional aftermath. Needing to replace or repair the chairs was a burden Splinter also wished to avoid.

Blue hopped on his toes, his sadness seemingly forgotten. “Your back hurts? I'll be your massager!”

“Massager” was an old game and, man, were his kids all bad at it—not that it came as a surprise. It was the reason why he tried not to mention his body aches, cramping, and stabbing pains anymore. Splinter hadn't even been talking about himself.

“Oh, no, that's okay, sweet Blue—”

Blue zipped to move the toolbox off the sheet and spun around the empty chairs and pushed them together seat-to-seat. “Donnie's the shopkeeper!”

Purple frowned, but stepped down from the chair. “It's called the customer service worker, Leo,” he corrected before addressing Splinter as he approached. “I got some great data from that game. Come with me, your appointment is…” Purple checked his non-existent watch. “Immediate.”

“Uh—” Before Splinter knew it, he was being shoved from behind by Blue and laid on his stomach on the chairs. A series of elbows, kicks, punches, and slaps were applied to his spine, all delivered with a proud grin. To Blue’s “client,” it felt like an eternity. His mind wandered to consider how if were in his actual body, more than half of it would spill off the chairs, but now, they could almost act as a bed for Splinter. He grimaced at the observation.

“You'll be like taffy when I'm done, Dad! Does Dad look like taffy, Donnie?” When Purple didn't reply Blue called his name again with more insistence. Splinter was tempted to be aggravated by the volume of his voice, but he was busy feeling the relief of not being expected to respond; the wind was nearly knocked from his lungs. Gaining sensitive rodent hearing only once he had several young children had to be a punishment.

“I'm logging my data, hold on.” Blue groaned something annoyed and drove another elbow beneath Splinter's scapula. He winced and began to sit up.

He manufactured a polite tone. “Thank you, sir, for—”

Blue planted both hands on Splinter's back to push him back down. “I'm not done.”

Splinter grunted and hot, impulsive anger sparked within him. His brow knitted and he tried again, stronger this time. “Blue, I wanna get up.”

The smile heard in his son’s voice irritated Splinter further. “Not yeeeet,” Blue said in a sing-songy lilt, continuing to press down on him.

Splinter surged upward. “Enough.” His voice was tighter than he wanted it to be. At least he managed to withhold from glaring at Blue by aiming his eyes away.

Blue only giggled. “Okay! Recommend us!”

“Oh, I will,” Splinter lied, swallowing another sigh. He was now unable to ignore his freshly exacerbated soreness. God, why did Blue have to…? Whatever, whatever. At least he and Purple weren't in danger anymore. That was what was important.

“Loud gasp! Where is Jupiter Jim: Mars Madness?” asked Purple. Splinter shrugged, but Blue answered before he could.

Blue quirked his brow ridge with a sideways smirk on his face. “Which one?”

“All of them. I had a dream about it last night and I wanna see if it was made up or not,” Purple replied. “Papa, retrieve them.” Splinter looked at him for a moment. Damn, this kid could be blunt. “Please,” Purple added. Splinter planted his paws on the ground and shuffled to the library.

Their library consisted of a tiny shelving unit, two bean bags, a bunch of blankets, and stacked books scattered on the floor. He needed to clean this up. As much as Splinter loathed the mess, he was happy to have such a selection as the TV was temperamental, especially in the summer when it stormed and that was when books became his sons’ main entertainment. Not Splinter, though. He disliked reading unless it was to his kids. Whenever he tried, his vision would defocus against his will and he'd have to reread the same page again and again.

Reading was a huge part of his routine once upon a time in the form of being handed fat script after fat script. It wasn't nearly as tough back then. Splinter gathered all of the comics titled Jupiter Jim: Mars Madness that he could find. One of them was missing its cover. He looked at the back. Had it always been like this? He couldn't recall.

On his way back to Purple and Blue, he glimpsed Orange in one of the bedrooms made from sewer tubes. Splinter paused to watch him as he colored on cardboard, humming to himself. A warm feeling blossomed in his chest and coaxed a soft smile from Splinter. He wanted to hear him explain what he was making. Later. Once he was done playing with the other two.

“Here. Hope that's all of them.” Splinter set them down and the boys scurried to crouch before them.

“Yay!” they chorused. Eager hands spread out the issues and flipped open pages. Splinter stood there as Purple explained what his dream had been. He wasn't sure why. He sort of felt stuck, eyes fixed on them as static ran in his brain.

He should really—

“Daddy, help! You're good at reading. I wanna find this fast.” Splinter jolted into motion and settled on the ground. He resented the cracking sounds of his ankles and knees as he did so, however. Along with shrill shouts, they had become the soundtrack of his life.

Splinter spent some time reading with them once Purple found what he needed, even laughing at their banter and offering his own. It was fun.

But the time to switch gears came. Dinnertime was rapidly approaching and he didn't want to allow the kids to get to a state of hunger. After hiding the toolbox, Splinter walked to the pantry, made of plastic bins, and opened the lids. He was hungry himself, after all, he hadn't eaten since breakfast because they were… running low… on food…

Fuuuuck. Fuck! Splinter pressed his fists against his shut eyes and groaned. He then blinked up at the ceiling, his expression pained. He was supposed to get more food. Why didn't he do that? He was a little moron.

Splinter sucked in a sharp inhale and looked into the bin again. If he went out now it'd take him well over an hour to return. He didn't want to make the boys wait that long, he was already cooking a bit late. He did this to himself. All right, he'd have to come up with something. Nice going, rat.

He looked in the miniature refrigerator, always humming with electricity, a sound Red found comforting and Purple found irritating. Inside were multiple unopened plastic water bottles, a partially opened can of corn, a piece of hard candy stuck to the shelf (he could guess which of his sons put that in there), a bag of green grapes, less than a pint of milk, walnuts, and a package of tortillas.

There weren’t significantly more options in the bin. Splinter tugged wet wipes from their package to wipe his hands down. Against every trustworthy dentist's advice, he used his teeth to peel off the lid of the final can of chili they had and dumped its contents in the pot to place on the burner. Such a small device made cooking seem like it took forever, but he was happy to have something at least. He tried to provide hot meals when he could and give them some warmth down in this often cold hovel.

Splinter took out the plastic plates, each specific to his sons, he had let them choose them themselves, and set them on the folding table next to him. He was unsatisfied with them eating on the floor. The thought of the disgusting shit (literally) that could be there and their plates being so close still gave him goosebumps.

Only two chairs were there as the others had been stolen to support a sheet tent earlier. When Splinter returned to Purple and Blue, they were arguing, passionately gesturing to their comics. Splinter tucked two chairs under his arm and grasped the third with his tail and dragged them to the table. His presence did not go unnoticed, however, and the bickering trailed him.

“Papa, tell your misguided child that Jupiter Jim would choose the laser blaster instead of the shrink gun to defeat the Sectrons.”

Blue waved his comic in the air. “No! It makes sense! It makes sense, okay? Shrink them and they can't hurt you! Doesn't that work, Dad?”

Splinter slid the chairs at the table before retaking his place in front of the burner. Splinter knew all too well that small opponents were opponents all the same and shouldn't be underestimated. He also knew that this debate was meaningless. “I'm trying to heat this up,” he told them, not taking his eyes off the pot.

“See? He doesn't agree with you.”

“Yes, he does!” came a scream. Splinter squeezed his eyes shut and his hold on the pot's handle tightened.

“You can both be right,” he tried. “Jupiter Jim has that pair of weapons, doesn't he? He can use each in different situations.”

Purple's scoff made Splinter's jaw tense in irritation. “Why would he do that? He could have one free hand to climb up the starship's side.”

Sarcasm slipped out. “You're right, so silly of me,” Splinter replied. There was no indication that the boys took note of his tone as their argument dragged on.

“He would use the shrink gun,” Blue asserted.

“You know shrunken Sectrons could still climb up, dummy. Just blast them and they're vaporized, gone forever.” Purple jabbed a jade green finger into his brother's chest and Blue swatted his hand away, grunting angrily with a stomp.

Splinter didn’t look behind him. “Don't call him that, please. You're smart, Blue.” He considered how he would heat the tortillas.

Red didn't like them cold because he believed they were too stiff. Splinter tended to agree despite having eaten his fair share of cold, plain tortillas in the past. He could put them on the burner or place them on the bottom of the pot when he was done with the chili. Well, then that'd get chili on the floor. He supposed he could clean that up? Ugh, he didn't want to, though. But it could attract pests. But he wanted to preserve his few cleaning supplies for important messes that his kids seemed determined to make every day.

“Hear that? I'm dumb—I mean, smart!” Purple giggled at his mistake and Blue's cheeks darkened. He grunted again with more ferocity as if to tell him to stop.

Purple reached for the comic in Blue's hand. “Here, I'll show you why it doesn't work.” Blue jerked his hand away, but Purple didn't relent. They let out these high-pitched, closed-mouth whines of frustration that unconsciously made anxiety bubble within Splinter. He stirred the chili with a long spoon.

“Let go! You're just going to show me a stupid Atomic Lass thing.”

“No, I'm not!” Purple's efforts to steal Blue's comic became more forceful.

“Atomic Lass would use your blaster because she's yucky! She also couldn't beat Cockroach Regina in nothing! Not even a blinking contest!”

“She so could! Atomic Lass can do anything! Especially take a bath! She would smash you with her mallet and you'd cry!”

“Let's settle down, boys,” Splinter said. “Hands to ourselves. Dinner will be ready soon and we're going to eat together.”

Purple's eyes zipped to Splinter as he redirected his anger. “I hate chili,” Purple stated in a nasty whine.

Splinter really did not need this right now. He hadn't noticed until then, but a headache had wedged itself behind his eyes. Splinter had to take a deep breath to avoid a biting reply. “Then what will you eat? Walnuts? That's not enough. Chili is actual food. You'll grow weak without it.”

“I don't want to eat with Donnie! He's stinky, too!” Blue's carapace bumped against Splinter's hip. Why did they have to bring this shit here? All he needed was a few more minutes to get this together. And then he could steal more food, maybe even get Red a real cat’s cradle while he was at it.

Splinter's tone was stern. “Stop, everyone. Right now. Back up.”

“Atomic Lass wouldn't want to eat with you either! Or Jupiter Jim!” Purple yelled.

Splinter put his arm between himself and his sons. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Back up, please.”

Blue tugged his comic with all his might and Purple returned his strength. Splinter’s timing was horrible because right when Splinter turned to snatch the comic from them both, Blue let go and surged forward, seizing Purple's forearm and wringing his skin in opposite directions.

Purple’s squeal ended in a sob that streaked his cheeks in tears. Splinter’s eyes flew open and he operated viscerally. He grabbed Blue’s arm and broke his grip on Purple, however, Blue winced when Splinter released him. Odd.

“Let go! No! That is not okay, Leonardo!” Splinter barked. Purple wrapped his arms around Splinter’s waist in a plea for comfort.

Splinter’s angered expression became tainted with confusion as he examined Blue, who held his forearm. A slowly reddening line stretched across his skin. He had accidentally scratched him. Blue wasn't looking at the mark but rather at Splinter. His dark brown eyes were wet as tears spilled over. Blue’s sobs joined Purple’s while he stood there, looking pitiful.

A wave of shame collided with Splinter's burst of anger on Purple's behalf. What should he say? His breathing escalated. Blue shuffled toward his father to ask for his pain to be soothed.

Another set of wails broke the stagnate sewer atmosphere. Unmistakable. Red. Splinter didn’t have to think about whether or not he should go to him because Red ran to his side with Orange chasing after him.

“Red, what's wrong?” The question came out unsteady. Red spoke, but what he shared was unintelligible, snot running down his mouth. “Use your words.” Splinter's own words sounded almost as impatient as he felt.

Red hiccuped and presented a piece of cardboard to Splinter. “M-Mikey took my present you gave meee! He cut it uuup!” Saying it aloud made Red cry harder and Splinter squinted at the art.

“Daddy…” Blue whined in a bid for attention.

Oh.

There was a lion illustrated in colored pencil with yellow yarn cut into strips surrounding its head to act as a mane. Creative, but it was a crime scene as far as the family was concerned. Splinter’s headache was threatening to split as a chorus of bawling assaulted him.

“Raphie took mine, Papa!” Orange screeched, shaking limp arms and jumping repeatedly in one place. Purple and Blue squeezed Splinter as they leaned against him for their own solace.

Formulating a plan about how to proceed was challenging when he could scarcely hear his thoughts anymore. He was only able to sense a rising, blistering pressure in his throat as his breathing continued to hasten.

Splinter felt crowded, caged in by these four needy, grabbing, howling bodies. Who he loved and who loved him and who he was letting down.

Then a turtle's heel dug into his tail and Splinter flinched.

“Ow!” he exclaimed with enough emotion that some of the boys’ crying faltered in surprise.

Desperate to reclaim his personal space, Splinter backed into the burner and the subsequent scraping sound hooked everyone's attention. Splinter whirled around to grasp the pot’s handle before it could tip over. His heart beat wildly. He turned off the burner. Splinter remained frozen for a moment.

That moment was enough to draw his eyes to his hand. His vile, hideous, pink rat hand. Trembling, he raised it slowly to his face, eyes tracing the curve of his long claws. The ones that hurt a child. His child. The one wearing the dirty bandana and the tattered shirt he found along the street.

His fragile composure took a nose-dive. His surroundings became nothing but threatening spikes stabbing into Splinter from every angle. Tears burned his eyes. Splinter closed his fist and his claws were driven hard into his skin from clenching as if he needed to punish that part of himself. His breathing was labored and out of control and hot flashes rampaged through him.

I can't do this, he thought.

How am I meant—I don't know how to do this!

I'm stupid, I should've never…

No! Don't say that!

They didn't ask for any of this!

Neither did I!

They rely on me.

Please! I can't be strong anymore. I used it all ages ago.

It's not their fault.

I should be better!

They need someone better, a put-together person who isn't awful!

I need help!

She said I'm never alone so why am I alone?!

Splinter's deep cries cut through the shrill, youthful ones from his sons. He fell to his knees in front of the burner, his head drooping and his straining face curtained by black hair. His head was bursting at the seams after being stuffed full.

His mind twisted toward a place that sent a chill through him.

How on Earth did Jiji do this?

But his grandpa didn't parent four kids. Neither did his mother, but he wished she had if it meant Splinter wouldn't be on his own.

Splinter struck his head. Stop thinking about that! Can't you do anything right?! Get it together, you rat fuck! Focus on all the shit around you! Fix something!

He was glad all the boys were too deep in their wallowing to attempt to comfort him. He didn't know if he could control what he'd do or say if they did.

The five of them wept for some time, fastened in place like the world was put on excruciating pause.

Of course, things only moved when Splinter did. Searing emotion fizzled into dullness, becoming far away and blurred. Splinter's face went slack as he finally opened his eyes. Transition. Fix. Seal it up. That's what had to happen. Only he could do it.

Splinter wiped his hooded eyes once and got to his feet. He faced his kids in all their flushed, drooling, snotty glory. He returned Orange's art piece to him. He kissed Purple's arm. He cleaned Blue’s scratch. He made Red a new cat's cradle. He apologized, his voice vacant and weak.

At last, the shrieking ceased.

Splinter moved right down the list. Finish dinner. He fed chili-on-tortillas to Red, Blue, and Orange while Purple ate warmed tortillas with a bag of tortilla chips. Splinter didn't utter a word the whole meal as he mentally divorced himself from his surroundings, filling his growling stomach with sips of milk.

He readied them for bed an hour later. He had no energy to care that they were confused by his monosyllabic replies. He could barely even muster the power to talk. He vowed that he would go topside to restock their supplies tomorrow.

Splinter's mattress became free reign to whichever boy(s) wanted it that night. Their chatter as they spoke excitedly to each other didn't bother Splinter as it would’ve when trying to fall asleep. He opted to use his recliner as his bed. He huddled in on himself in the seat cushion. The armrests cradled Splinter's head and feet. He ensured his tail didn't touch his skin when he drew it close to himself. The recliner's back facing the rest of the atrium gave Splinter a semblance of privacy as he cried, something he sorely longed for.

His grandpa would've never broken down like that.

Splinter usually perceived a tomorrow as a blank slate to learn from all his blunders and improve his parenting. It was a necessity to keep himself afloat. But he only felt oppressive dread while choking down his sobs. Enduring another day that was anything like this one felt impossible.

There was seemingly no way to mitigate the daily chaos in his household. He was a fool to expect something else when the past decade of his life had offered him exclusively chaos. If today was any indication, nothing he did to manage it was enough. Splinter was as trapped as he had ever been. And these poor children were trapped here with him.

Chapter Text

Free Hamato Yoshi from the agony that is his life